Flowers for the Dead

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  The perfect murder, dressed up as a tragic accident.

  Unlike many killers, Adam had not only planned as far as the death. He had thought long and hard about the aftermath. He played the part of the tragic orphan to a tee, somehow finding it easier to play a role than to be himself, in fact. In his mind, he acknowledged that he owed a lot of his success to his parents. From his mother he had learned how to lie, how to carry himself convincingly. From his father, he had discovered what gave criminals away. He knew his grief must be visible to others, otherwise he would look cold, but not over-the-top, which might then look staged. The key to success was to get this right, but grief came easily because he simply called up the loss of his gran. He also dyed his hair one shade darker, which made his skin appear paler.

  A few months earlier he had spotted an advert for some women’s moisturiser that had a green tint to it to calm down redness. He wore some on the day of the joint funeral at Moseley Crematorium and was pleased with the pallor it created. He looked drawn and wan, not least because he had been deliberately starving himself since the deaths. The handful of people who turned up all felt pity for the young lad who had lost everyone he cared about in less than two years.

  Now, Adam was all alone in the world. Without his father to make him feel unmanly, because he would never measure up to him. Without his mother to abuse and torture him. He would discover who he really was, free from interference.

  ***

  PRESENT

  Nerves kick in as Laura walks up to her front door wondering what the hell she is going to come across this time.

  It has been two days since Laura spoke with Aunt Linda, and the more she thinks about their conversation the less she is convinced by her aunt’s theory. Too many odd things are happening all the time, not just at night.

  She believes she may have a stalker. And she thinks she knows exactly who it is.

  She realises with relief that there are no flowers waiting for her. That’s strange, because it’s the first Saturday in three months that she has not received any. Perhaps he has finally got bored.

  Sliding her key into the lock, Laura takes a deep breath and steps inside.

  A shiver runs up her spine and she finds herself reflexively glancing over her shoulder, in case someone is standing behind her, out of view.

  Everything seems to be as she left it this morning. She lets her breath out slowly, but feels no relief. Not yet, not until she has checked every room.

  She walks into the bedroom last. Backs out again, shaking, unable to take her eyes off what is there.

  A pink rose is resting on her pillow. It wasn’t there when she went out.

  She snatches up her phone and dials her aunt.

  “You didn’t put a flower on my pillow, did you?” she demands.

  “No, why? What’s going on?” Laura can hear the confusion in her aunt’s voice.

  “Someone is breaking in,” she says. Saying it out loud actually makes her feel better, stronger. Now that she knows for certain that she isn’t losing her mind, she can start tackling the problem.

  “What?” her aunt gasps. “What have they taken? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. They haven’t taken anything. That’s the weird part. I think I’ve got a stalker… You know all those things I told you about? My bad memory? Well, it’s not me! Someone is breaking into my house and doing this to me.”

  She is absolutely certain now. It is the only explanation, and she cannot believe it has taken her so long to realise. But everything was so subtle.

  “Love, you’ve been under a lot of strain lately. Are you sure about this? I mean…why would someone break in and do your shopping, or put toothpaste out for you?”

  Aunt Linda is talking to her as if she might break. It’s the special voice, the one people used around her a lot when her family first died. Having spent all these years wallowing in it, it should feel welcome, but Laura has spent weeks now trying to get better and stronger, to move her life on a little. She is not going back to being that girl again, not now she has finally started making progress and had been feeling better for it.

  Someone is doing this to her.

  She has thought hard about who it can be. If someone is trying to make her doubt her sanity, she can think of only one person who would benefit: Aunt Linda. She would be the beneficiary if something were to happen to her. Laura was not left rich by her parents’ death, but she does have a decent amount of savings for a rainy day. It’s about £70,000. Would her aunt really set her up like this to get her hands on that amount though? She can’t believe it.

  But then again, whoever it is has to be someone close to her.

  “I know who it is,” Laura announces. “It’s Ryan. He’s been sending me flowers every single week since we broke up, pretty much. I’m going to call him now, tell him it’s got to stop.”

  “If you’re really certain, then your Uncle Kieran and I will come round and change the locks, eh? If it will make you feel better.”

  ‘Thanks, I was about to ask if you could do that for me.”

  “Do you want me to be there when you speak to Ryan?”

  Laura takes a second to think, but then refuses the offer. “I can handle him myself.”

  “Just be careful. If he’s obsessed with you then he might be dangerous.”

  In the end they agree on a compromise. Aunt Linda and Uncle Kieran will take her to Ryan’s place and wait outside while the young woman talks to him alone; that way they will be on hand should things get nasty. Afterwards, they will change the locks and make the place more secure.

  As soon as Uncle Kieran finishes work they pick up Laura. She is bouncing with adrenaline; not nervous but angry, and keen to tell Ryan exactly what she thinks of him. When they pull up outside his flat, she is out of the car like a rocket, streaking to his front door and hammering on it.

  When Ryan opens it, a lazy smile comes across his face. “Hey, Laura, how’s things?” he starts.

  She pushes past him impatiently, marches into his living room and stands with her hands on her hips.

  “Err, come in…” he says jokingly. He has not changed a bit since she last saw him. Still wearing baggy jeans and a massive t-shirt, a skater-boarding dude in a world of tanned, over-groomed men in tight clothes.

  “It’s not very nice when someone forces their way into your personal space is it?” she demands. She steps forward, shoving her face into his until they are nose to nose.

  “What’s your problem?” he frowns, stepping back. “You’re acting like a cornered rat.”

  “Think that description is more apt for you, isn’t it? Give up, Ryan. We’re over. Stop sending me flowers. Stop breaking into my flat, you freak.”

  He blinks rapidly, trying to process her words. Finally he gives up. “Sorry, what?”

  “Just. Stop,” she repeats slowly.

  “Nope, no idea what you’re on about.”

  “So you’re denying sending me flowers every week since we split?” she scoffs.

  “Yeah…cos my girlfriend would be pretty pissed off with that.”

  “Girlfriend?” Laura falters for the first time since stomping into Ryan’s home.

  “Yvonne?” Ryan calls. “Vonny! Can you come in here a sec, please, there’s someone wants to meet you.”

  Laura’s eyes are glued to the door, and she is starting to feel a little foolish, but blusters through. “Making up a girlfriend is pretty pathetic, Ryan…”

  But then a curvy woman with hair the colour of honey makes an appearance, wearing one of Ryan’s big t-shirts with a CND emblem. Her cat’s eyes are curious when they light on Laura. From the easy way she slides under Ryan’s arm and leans into him it is obvious they are a couple very much in love. She smiles warmly at Laura and says a shy: “Hi.”

  Ryan does the introductions. It is clear from the pity that flashes in Yvonne’s eyes that Ryan has told her all about his emotionally broken ex. As if Laura didn’t feel foolish enough already.

&nb
sp; “You really haven’t been sending flowers, have you,” states Laura.

  Ryan shakes his head. “No. Look, what’s going on?” He looks genuinely concerned.

  Even after he has heard, Ryan is none the wiser. “Wish I could help you,” he says. “Look, I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s heard anything about who might be doing this. You know what a small place Colchester is, I’m sure someone knows someone who knows someone.”

  “I’d really appreciate that,” Laura says.

  ***

  Miles away, Adam is listening in to the whole thing via Laura’s mobile – thanks to his high-tech know-how he can use it as a microphone. He is confused. Laura seems to be scared suddenly by what he is doing.

  Every Saturday he has given her flowers to commemorate the day he first saw her: that wonderful day in Covent Garden, when the sun lit up her deep red hair and made her pale skin and freckles glow with vitality. Usually he lays the flowers on her doorstep because he likes the idea of them being the very first thing she sees as she walks towards her front door. After a hard day at work, it must be cheering to see something so beautiful. Today he had decided to do something a little different though, to celebrate them reaching their three month ‘anniversary’.

  It seems to have backfired spectacularly.

  It’s just like it always seems to go. He tries to make these women happy but in the end everything he does seems to make them sad. They are silly, hysterical creatures.

  Annoyance eats at him further when he watches the locks being changed. If anything they are even easier to pick than the last lot, and he is furious with Laura’s relatives for not putting in a bit of time and effort to research the best to use. He would happily advise Laura if she is feeling insecure, but instead of coming to him she has turned elsewhere.

  After everything he has done for her, he is still not her first port of call.

  He puts on Antonio Vivaldi’s Gloria in D Major. The voice spirals sweetly up into the darkening clouds outside, piercing them until a chink of light appears. The same happens with Adam’s soul. The piece always makes him think of the soaring feeling of being in love. His anger soothes, and by 11pm he is creating another beautiful bouquet of flowers to cheer Laura up and let her know he is watching over her, keeping her safe. That he is her guardian angel and has very special plans for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ~ Yellow Rose ~

  Joy

  THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

  For the first time in his life, Adam was happy. Now officially an adult, he was free from the scrutiny of Social Services and the lawyers, and had no family or friends to check up on him. He luxuriated in his solitude.

  The six months under the watchful eye of the lawyers and accountants had not been wasted though. Adam had absorbed all the advice on managing money, handling the stocks and shares he now owned, and so on. He felt confident that he could run things alone; he had always been a mature young man in some ways.

  He chose not to get a job. Life was already so full, thanks to all his hobbies, running his investments, and maintaining the house and gardens - he got rid of the staff his mother had taken on. He did not need to communicate with anyone unless he chose to, instead living through his computer.

  On the rare occasion that he found himself wanting a bit of social interaction, he would visit one of the many cafes in Moseley, or sometimes even a cosy pub, and soak in the conversations going on around him.

  At last he was in charge of his body, not his mother, and he took his fitness regime to a new level. He loved exercise not for vanity’s sake but for the sense of control it gave him. He liked to be able to push his body and feel it respond, to build up muscle groups the way he desired.

  More time was also devoted to Adam’s study of the arts, a new passion he was developing. From paintings to sculpture, modern to renaissance and beyond, he loved it all as a way of conveying so much without words. Music was the ultimate non-verbal form of expression for him, though – although nothing would ever replace his beloved flowers. He started going to concerts, and also had a discreet sound system fitted so that he could listen to music no matter what room he was in as he moved around the house.

  There was a part of him that was troubled though. Adam’s happiness had come at a price. He had now killed three people. It was not something the eighteen-year-old was proud of, despite his satisfaction at pulling off the perfect crime. His hand had been forced, though; it was not that he wanted to be a murderer it was that he had had no choice.

  Winter turned to spring, the cherry trees in the garden blossoming. It made him think of Lisa more and more, her body hidden away under her very own cherry tree. White cherry tree blossom means deception, which seemed right for her: even nature was condemning her for the way she had led him on only to hurt him. But he had forgiven her.

  He found himself remembering fondly the way strands of her hair had fluttered in the breeze, scintillating in the sunlight. The beautiful colours that had surrounded her as she moved. Her lovely lips. He deeply regretted the way things had gone between them.

  At first, her parents had been everywhere, on television, newspapers and magazines, appealing for information. But the world had quickly moved on and forgotten about the missing girl. Adam would never forget though. As the second anniversary of her disappearance had rolled around, there had been a couple of paragraphs in a handful of newspapers, but that was all.

  Sometimes he felt that she was with him. Somehow she was inside him, keeping him company as he slowly redecorated the house, undoing all his mother’s work. The lonely boy did not question how, he simply accepted and embraced his only friend in the world, a girl whom he had murdered. It was she who subtly suggested to him that he track down an original copy of the Language of Flowers. A physically tiny volume, which was translated from the French original and published in 1852, it was credited with standardising floriography.

  Holding the slim Victorian book in his hands, Adam was filled with the sort of reverence others might feel for an ancient copy of the bible. This was the book that had ultimately allowed him to communicate with the world for years. The messages he and his gran had swapped had been a lifesaver for him, stopping him from going mad.

  He learned that the language of flowers had helped others express messages and emotions for thousands of years, and through countless countries throughout Europe and Asia. It was woven through ancient mythologies and folklore, and even within William Shakespeare’s sonnets and plays. Even in modern times, when much of the symbolism had been lost, people were still drawn to flowers at key times, from weddings to funerals.

  Nuances that Adam had not been aware of were brought to his attention. It was not only the flowers themselves that spoke volumes; the position of the bloom within the bouquet could be key, or even the number of them used. Suddenly the stumbling sentences he had been trying to create with his gran became fluent.

  He often read the preface to The Language of Flowers, despite knowing it off by heart, because he found it so apt.

  “When Nature laughs out in all the triumph of Spring, it may be said, without a metaphor, that, in her thousand varieties of flowers, we see the sweetest of her smiles; that, through them, we comprehend the exultation of her joys; and that, by them, she wafts her songs of thanksgiving to the heaven above her, which repays her tribute of gratitude with looks of love.

  “Yes, flowers have their language. Theirs is an oratory that speaks in perfumed silence, and there is tenderness, and passion, and even the light-heartedness of mirth, in the variegated beauty of their vocabulary. To the poetical mind, they are not mute to each other; to the pious, they are not mute to their Creator; and ours shall be the office, in this little volume to translate their pleasing language, and to show that no spoken word can approach to the delicacy of sentiment to be inferred from a flower seasonably offered; that the softest impressions may be thus conveyed without offence, and even profound grief alleviated, at a moment when the most tuneful voice w
ould grate harshly on the ear, and when the stricken soul can be soothed only by unbroken silence.”

  The sweetest of her smiles… the exultation of her joys… an oratory that speaks in perfumed silence… when the stricken soul can be soothed only by unbroken silence. Those words leapt out at him, soothing his own tortured soul, which so struggled to communicate. Flowers conveyed so much more than Adam ever could through clumsy words.

  ***

  PRESENT

  It is scary knowing there is someone out there watching her every move, but Laura feels safe with her new locks. Whoever it is must have somehow got a key for the old locks; it is the only explanation for the way they have been coming and going without breaking in.

  “Try getting in now, sucker,” she thinks, smirking at the thought of him being thwarted – she is ninety-nine per cent certain her stalker is a man.

  She sleeps soundly, and can see no sign of disturbance when she gets up the following morning. She is almost skipping on her way to work because she feels so relieved knowing that her home is locked down.

  Before she goes to bed that night, Laura goes round her flat and takes snaps on her phone camera. She wants a record of what it looks like before she goes to sleep, and another when she wakes, as she is still uncertain how much of what is happening is in her head.

  Afterwards, she lies in bed. But she doesn’t want to go to sleep. Just in case she does something mad during her slumber. Just in case someone breaks in.

  Hours pass and she lies there, ears straining to hear any sound, jumping if a cat meows outside. Nothing happens, but with each passing second her nerves grow for no reason at all, and she knows she is working herself up when there is no need. She is safe now. More minutes pass.

  She leaps out of bed, decisive. Hurries to the kitchen and grabs a carving knife. Jumps back into bed with it and stuffs it under her pillow, hand gripping the handle ready to pull it out in a second if necessary. Then lies there again, unsleeping.